Byline: Hero Worship
Beware the rise of the fire gods. Sound the trumpet and radiate courage boys. The airwaves sing a plea for violence, asking to give war a chance.
There's a firefight in sight and not too many chances left to take. Roadside bombs keep exploding, changing everything in a Baghdad minute.
The skyscrapers are standing tall but the collective will is growing thin realizing demons disguised as democracy do deadly damage.
Heroes don't fabricate will. They don't suspend termination orders. They find a way to augment diplomacy in order to restructure the guns for the benefit of the butter.
With that high expectation we detach here, finding personal salvation and social revolution packed in a capsule, bottled in a can. It's as fake as double tracked vocals.
Just like our heroes. Nothing more than cassette tape rockers in a VHS world. Pat Benatar almost had it right, it's lust that's a battlefield.
Running to take shelter in sexual congress and senatorial sin, I get high off post-pop anthems from the post-war western world, pandering to poets posthumously.
Relaxing with recondite rituals and myths, I feel vibrations of violence amidst an impending sense of goodness.
It's a sick feeling that makes you shiver like thinking about French kissing a razor blade.
All your heroes become cartoons. Starting out with a gimmick ending with a bang. But there is beauty in the notion of pathos being underrated.
Meanwhile, demons on demonstration display demonstrative demeanor. Dragging around, mildly drugged. Trying to do the research and making a genuine effort.
When love is the subplot and you believe in inspiration, you deserve your moments.
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